


The Punisher

by Alison_Ocean



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Fanfic, Frank Castle x Karen Page, Karen Page kicking ass, Kastle AU, Punisher au, Role Reversal AU, kastle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8775541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alison_Ocean/pseuds/Alison_Ocean
Summary: Her eyes glanced off the bullet casings littering the floor, then looked up at him. Her next words were heavy and resigned.“I’m the Punisher.” - The first of a series of drabbles featuring a Kastle role reversal AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still finding my sea legs in this whole writing thing, but this friggin’ Kastle role reversal AU has been crawling beneath my skin for a week, and I just had to get it down on paper. Will hopefully be adding more drabbles to this thread as they come to me.  
> Please comment & enjoy. :)

One would think that after serving six tours and having the shit kicked out of him more times that he wanted to remember, Frank Castle would be used to the taste of blood in his mouth. From getting into harmless scraps with his platoon mates to grappling over a blade during his first knife fight; blood and broken bones were as much a part of his life as breathing. But somehow, the coppery warmth seeping from his cheek to his tongue surprised him. He hadn’t expected to bleed. Not in front of his former unit, much less his former commanding officer.

“Had enough yet?” Schoonover’s dry voice echoed in the silent warehouse.

Blood swam in his mouth. Before he could spit, the glinting fist swung again, cracking against his temple. Pain exploded behind his left eye. He strained against the zip-ties that held his wrists to the metal chair as crimson splattered the cement floor. He’d be lucky if he didn’t walk away from this with a fractured eye socket. _If_ he walked away. The chances of that were looking slimmer and slimmer with each passing second.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank noted the absolute stillness of the fifteen odd men standing around him, watching. Most of them were marines he’d served alongside – boys and men he’d sweated and bled with under an endless number of blinding desert suns. Now they served as Schoonover’s inner circle; arms crossed, unflinching stares. Some even looked smug; happy to see the boss dishing it out to his longtime favorite.

Rodriguez stepped away from him, bloody fist gleaming wetly in the light. His look of contempt was not lost on Frank. He wondered what he ever did to the bastard, aside from turning down his new handler’s asinine business proposition. His eyes flicked up and narrowed as Schoonover stepped into view.

“Who did you talk to, Frank?” His voice was a quavery growl – it was probably supposed to be threatening. But the agitation in his eyes betrayed his anxiety, and Frank wanted to smile in his stony face. Despite the macho intimidation set-up, the colonel was scared. Someone in the Kitchen had been picking off his compatriots like dirty flies – one by one the city dumpsters had been giving up their bodies like offerings to some pagan god. The colonel knew that if he didn’t stem the bloody tide he’d lose support, not to mention security. His own head could be the next on the chopping block.

Frank hocked a wad of spit to the dirty floor and flexed his wrists against the plastic ties. His eyes scanned the room, measuring the group. If he could get one of these shitbags to kick the chair over, he should be able to reach the bowie knife tucked in his boot. He looked back at Schoonover and scoffed.

“Who did I talk to?” He repeated the question rhetorically, his head cocked tauntingly to the side.

“Who didn’t _you_ talk to?” His voice went hard as flint and he felt the venom of it lock his jaw. It was no big secret that Schoonover had been sifting through old personnel for months, searching for loyal dogs to profit his business. That business being the pure grade Colombian heroin that had been pouring into the Kitchen. Frank hadn’t wanted to believe the rumors, even as more and more of his old contacts had slowly dropped off the radar. He was no saint, but he couldn’t imagine the depths of a man’s depravity that he could turn his back on all the shit he’d fought for, bled for, and just to add to the garbage that was already stewing in the streets.

Then Schoonover had been knocking on his door, pitching the idea like it was a goddamn investment firm.

He’d left no room for translation when he told him to get the hell out of his apartment, and to not come back unless he wanted a lead escort next time.

He itched to give him one now. The old dog had crossed the line an hour ago, when his thugs had drugged him and kidnapped him off the street.

Schoonover ruefully twisted his lips in response to Frank’s question. He slowly began pacing around the metal chair. Frank eyed him carefully as he passed.

“If I were you, I would knock off the bullshit, Castle.” His voice carried a note of finality that Frank was familiar with. It was the voice the colonel used when he knew what his final call would be on whether a hostage lived or died.

Schoonover stepped in front of him again, and leaned in close.

“We both know you’ve got nothing.” He scoffed. “No one.” He was referring to Frank’s increasingly solitary existence since returning to the states.

He leaned away suddenly, his eyebrows raised. “What’s to stop me from dumping your worthless corpse in the river?”

Frank stared back, quietly assessing. Despite the implicit threat, Schoonover looked like he was putting on a show. The man he’d once respected was at the end of his rope. He’d killed one too many gangbangers and now his whole operation was being hunted like game. He must have already burned through all probable options – rival gangs, hitmen, revenge-mongers – to be threatening _him_ now. The situation suddenly struck him as hilarious. He started to laugh, great drags of laughter choking out of his blood-soaked throat. Schoonover stepped back, looking at him like he’d gone crazy. Yeah, maybe he had.

“Enjoying retirement yet?” He chirped, a shit-eating grin lingering on his face. His voice dropped lower. “Maybe you should have thought of the consequences before you started dealing in shit. You were bound to get some in your mouth.”

“So you know who’s responsible for this?” Schoonover stepped closer, distracted. His expression was a mix of interest and irritation.

Frank threw back his head and chuckled one more time. The old man was just grasping at straws now.

“I don’t know who’s after your boys” He sobered, staring straight into Schoonover’s eyes. “But I wish I could be here to see them finish you off, you miserable sack of –”

Schoonover’s face darkened to a look of pure hatred. His leg shot out and Frank braced himself as, in one violent motion, he kicked the chair over. He landed hard on his left side. He immediately raised his right ankle and gripped it with his fingers, feeling for the blade handle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Schoonover raise a hand, motioning to the others to stay back. This was his fight.

His combat boots were braced apart, and he suddenly stepped forward. Frank knew the colonel wasn’t beyond kicking him while he was down. He turned his head and spat viciously, hitting the old man in the face and stopping him mid-stride.

“Son of a –”

Whatever Schoonover was about to say was suddenly cut off as the back windows exploded. Frank instinctively ducked his head to his chest at the unmistakable sound of artillery fire. He could hear, from behind him, bullets shredding the warehouse’s thin aluminum walls. They whistled over his head, and warm blood splattered his face as Schoonover was immediately riddled with lead. Shards of glass flew through the air as the surrounding windows shattered. He palmed the knife and angled it, sawing through his restraints with deathbed efficiency. He cut through one and snapped the other off.

The bullets kept flying without a break – this definitely wasn’t just one man, this was a tactical assault team – as he crawled on his stomach through the blood pooling on the floor.

He shoved aside the colonel’s body – eyes glazed open, mouth gaping. He didn’t bother feeling for a pulse – he knew that look. When all you could see in a person’s eyes was the back of their skull.

He kept his head down as he crawled towards the others. The men had scattered blindly when the shots broke out, trying to find nonexistent cover. Most of them were now slumped against the walls like trapped rats, the bullets still hitting their corpses and misting the room with blood. He snagged someone’s jet black 9mm that had skidded across the floor, and checked that it was loaded.

He was almost at the far wall when the bullets suddenly stopped, and a thick silence took their place. He cautiously raised to a crouch and cocked the hammer on the 9mm. He stayed low, and began creeping towards the utility door that led to the street, all while listening for approaching footsteps. Silence may be enough for whoever was gunning for the Blacksmith, but he had a sneaking suspicion that anyone bothering with this much firepower would probably check for themselves to make sure the job was done.

A noise distracted him and he turned. Mills – a former member of his infantry unit, and one of the men who’d grabbed him off the street – was struggling out from beneath two corpses slumped near the door. He staggered to his feet and surveyed the room. Frank took in his wild, rolling eyes, as well as the blood streaming down his right arm.

“Hey.” He kept his voice low, trying to get his attention. As soon as he spoke, the man spun. Frank barely had time to register the glint of aluminum in his left hand before his instincts had him hitting the deck. The shot echoed over his head, deafening in the dead silence. There was the screaming grate of glass – the asshole had managed to hit one of the few intact windows. Anyone lingering outside would have heard that shot.

Frank looked back up to see Mills turn and book it out the door. Foregoing caution, he rolled to his feet and took off after him.

He caught up with him in the alley. He swung out like a mad dog, but Frank was faster. It took him half a second to seize the gun and empty the cartridge, pistol-whipping him with it for good measure as he restrained him against the wall. He patted him down for weapons, all while his hands burned to return some of the beating he’d just gotten.

“Piece of shit.” He grabbed his wrist and bent to zip-tie it to a protruding pipe. The cops could have him, for all he cared. If anyone else was coming, he would have heard them by now. Whoever had an ax to grind seemed to have been satisfied.

There was a small sound, like a stick hitting a piece of meat. Soft and grimly familiar. Blood splattered across Frank’s hands and he froze, looking up. Mills shuddered, his eyes going wide. Blood dripped from a small bullet hole, just left of his sternum.

The shot had gone beneath Frank’s arm, hitting the target with military precision. He turned around, scanning darkness. At the end of the alley something flickered beneath a streetlamp. Just a flash of black – a figure lowering a handgun. Steam curled off the barrel in icy wisps. Whoever it was was tall and slight; a young man. A black ski mask hid their face. That was all the visual he got before the person turned and ran.

He took off after him, the blood sizzling in his veins. He’d been spoiling for a fight all evening, and he wasn’t going to let some shitbag gangbanger just take a shot like that – right in front of his face, like he was taunting him – and bolt. He scanned the street. No one else was in sight, but the man couldn’t have been working alone. Didn’t matter, though. No one would be able to save him now.

 He hardly felt the freezing night air, payed little attention to the glare of streetlamps as he raced beneath them. The black figure sprinted across the street and disappeared, ducking down an alley. Frank followed, and came up short. The alleyway was empty; it ended in a brick wall. A clanging sound had him looking up, and he saw a leg disappear over the top of a metal ladder that was screwed to the wall. He gripped the lowest rung and heaved himself up.

He pulled the 9mm out of his waistband as he climbed over the ladder, on to the rooftop. Specks of brass winked at him in the dim light. Near the edge of the roof, hundreds of used shells were scattered on the cement. He walked around them, and checked the view from the edge. From here, someone had a clear shot through the warehouse windows across the street. His foot brushed against canvas, and he looked down. There was a large duffle bag on the ground. He scanned the rooftop – no one in sight – before lowering the 9mm.

He opened the zipper and came face to face with an AK-47, a dismantled sniper rifle, and packs of ammo. He looked back at the shattered windows, slowly processing what the setup was telling him. Whoever had taken the shots was working alone, from a single vantage point. He must have shot out the windows first. Then, after shredding the place, he’d climbed down from the roof to finish off any survivors. This wasn’t an entire assault team or a gang shoot-out. This was one man.

The hairs on the back of his neck abruptly stood up and he turned his head. A booted foot kicked out from nowhere, hitting the underside of his wrist and sending the gun flying. He stood, then saw the canister coming and ducked. He instinctively covered his eyes and backed away as a hiss filled the silence. Pepper spray. That was a cheap trick. He swung around back and caught the man in a shoulder hold, straining his elbow at an unnatural angle. The man grunted in pain and dropped the canister, clearly surprised. He jolted back with a quick elbow that caught Frank in the jaw. He adjusted his hold and tried to get the fucker in a headlock. The guy went crazy, throwing another sharp elbow to his ribs and spinning around, kicking out towards his abdomen, trying to pull out of the hold. He landed a solid uppercut to his swollen left temple and he grunted in pain, instinctively stepping away from the blow. The man took the opportunity to wriggle out from the headlock, but Frank managed to keep a stubborn grip on fistfuls of black fabric. The man lurched backwards, struggling futilely, and the ski mask came off in Frank’s hand. He immediately raised his fist, looking for a face. He froze.

Pale skin, ghostly in the weak light. Rivers of snowy blonde hair gleamed where they escaped from a mussed braid. Blue eyes like a one-two punch to the solar plexus, carved into the shadows above sweet cheekbones.

“What the hell…” He felt himself speak the words with a sense of unreality. He checked his swing without consciously deciding to, the voice of his old man coming back to haunt him loud and clear. _Only a weak man hits a woman._

He was acutely aware of the sudden softness, the gently-boned form that he clutched in his hands. For a moment he wasn’t certain what his next move should be. All of his instincts screamed to let her go, but the soldier in him kept his fists locked.

She read his brief second of hesitation and reared back. There was a wicked crack as she lunged forward again, slamming her forehead against the bridge of his nose. _Son of a bitch._ He dropped his hold and stepped away.

“Classy,” he muttered, a knee-jerk reaction. He probed the rigid cartilage with his fingers. There was no break, but he tasted fresh blood at the back of his throat. It didn’t help that she stood nearly eye-level with him.

When he looked back up, she was zipping her duffel closed and hauling it over one slim shoulder. With stoic efficiency, she picked up the 9mm where it had landed. He tensed, expecting her to raise it. But she didn’t even look at him as she silently released the clip, pocketed the cartridge, and turned to leave.

So that was it – she shoots up a warehouse full of ex-military gang members, then disappears into the goddamned night? No, he wanted answers. Hell, he deserved them at this point.

“Now wait.” Frank stepped towards her, palms flat, a nonthreatening gesture. “Wait a second.” She paused, her head barely turning to acknowledge him. A million questions crowded to the front of his mind. He picked the obvious one.

“Who the hell are you?”

She turned more fully around, her eyes hooded.

“Haven’t you heard?” Her voice was quiet and low, with a ream of steel running through it. It echoed in his bones as she spoke the words, rich with gallows humor.

Her eyes glanced off the bullet casings littering the floor, then looked up at him. Her next words were heavy and resigned.

“I’m the Punisher.”

At the name, newspaper headlines flashed in front of his eyes. Twelve dead from the cartel last week. A group of bikers found riddled with bullets in an abandoned building a month ago. A rapist left dead in an alleyway, throat cut, his tongue lying next to him on the blood-soaked asphalt. His intended victim had been hysterical, covered in her assailant’s blood, babbling about a black devil that had forsaken Hell and now walked the earth, dealing out his own brand of punishment for evil-doers. Given how the “Devil of Hell’s Kitchen” was a title already taken, the “Punisher” moniker had stuck.

His mind juxtaposed the brutality he’d witnessed with his own eyes with this girl – this woman – who stood before him now. Blonde hair, blue eyes, skin like painted porcelain. A woman that idiots like him would have tripped over themselves trying to impress, way back when.

It didn’t seem real, what she was telling him. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen her take that shot.

He assessed her again, his eyes critical. Searching for the signs, the subtle giveaways that every person wore.

Maybe there was something there, in her bearing, that gave it away. The icy calm that surrounded her, the unyielding razor’s edge of her shoulder blades, whispering that she was capable of far more than she appeared. The vacuous black hole that shimmered in the hollows of her irises.

The revelation hung in the air between them as his questions dried on his tongue.

She shifted infinitesimally and his eyes were drawn to a scar peeking above the high black collar of her shirt. It was a blunt, crooked line carved deep into the skin. He felt his breath freeze in his chest as he followed its progression across her white throat.

Her eyes were dead and emotionless and when she finally turned away.

He watched her walk off into the darkness. The slight swing of her hips was unmistakable, and he wondered how he’d ever taken her for a man. Probably a side effect of his military training; he was used to sanding down the details of a person – compartmentalizing the unnecessary, until they were little more than a moving target in his mind. He stood, staring, long after she’d disappeared from view. There was a heaviness in his shoulders – an ache that he’d never experienced before, but now demanded to be heard. A confusing mix of longing, and maybe pity. A hollowness that chewed at him.

Those big blue eyes stayed with him in the dark like they were staking a claim. He stood on the rooftop for an immeasurable moment, only moving when the sound of police sirens grew louder.

 


End file.
